by Kyle Belote
Judas rolled his eyes and strolled forward. Soldiers waved their weapons to intercept him, but he pushed their swords away with unspoken conjury. When steel didn’t obey, the soldier’s stepped in his path, but they too were pushed aside by the same invisible force. Though followed, he arrived unmolested at the kernoyl’s tent. The guard standing outside announced his arrival. When warlock entered, the commander stood, accompanied by his second, and much to Judas’ surprise, Kayis Dathyr.
“Snap to it, then,” the kernoyl barked to Kayis. The former Consul fled from the tent, his face flushed. Judas watched him leave, turning as he retreated. “Warlock Lakayre, what brings you here to these parts?”
“The war, Kernoyl.”
“I was informed you would be showing up, but not the purpose of your arrival.”
“To make sure the fortifications and defenses of Cape Gythmel are up to the task of fending off thousands of goblins and whatever else Xilor throws at us. You are prepared to fight off thousands, right?”
“We’ll be ready enough,” the kernoyl muttered. “This is my second, Kaptyn Dillon. He will be your escort throughout the camp.” By the kernoyl’s voice, Judas could tell it wasn’t a request.
“I have no need for an escort; I’ve been in plenty of army camps before.”
“I insist,” the officer clarified. “While we have the royal edict to follow your instruction, the men need to see their officers taking orders seriously. With the Kaptyn present, it will reinforce those ideals.” Judas granted the commander’s logic, but he knew the real reason behind his excuse.
“Very well, I would like to tour the camp and the preparations.”
“As you wish, warlock. Kaptyn?”
The kaptyn clicked his heels and wave Judas to the tent entrance, “By your leave, sire.”
***
Chapter 68 : Xenomene
The Krey, relieved of their duties, spent time repairing or crafting anything Lord Yeates required. He never asked for their services, but when Patch discovered the broken water pump at the well, he asked to fix it. With granted permission, the Krey took it to heart, going out of their way to find things to fix. Xenomene spent a great deal of time shadowing the elderly man, hoping to learn more about his past or him. She noted the stories of his effective leadership, inspiring subordinates to follow him into the maw of hell and back. Little information was forthcoming about his past, but that did not deter her. Little time passed before the Krey ran out of things to fix and spent their time attending their gear, armor, and honing their fighting skills. Each time they took up arms, they made sure the Army or any stragglers were well away from their area.
Xenomene, since the day they arrived and more so after relieved of work duty, took liberties with her clothing. Since they no longer had to dig around in the mud or topple trees, she took one of her pants and cut the legs, making shorts. She did the same to a tunic, removing the sleeves so she could be cool during the rare hot days. Xeno never liked clothing, it irritated her. The only thing tolerable was her armor, but she didn’t wear it since she didn’t have to. Unfortunately, in public, clothing came as a requirement, so altered clothing became the next best thing, which elicited chuckles, whistles, and glances from both Krey and soldiers. She promptly and aptly replied by flipping them off or telling them which body part she would dismember and where she would reattach it. Even the Mind took notice of her; she caught him staring more than once.
One day, Keg returned from Lord Yeates store with a bottle of rum in his hand and a crate filled with eleven more bottles, one for each Krey and A’uri. He came back with strange tidings that a warlock entered the camp earlier that morning. The Void-Walker squad laughed and scoffed at the preposterous notion and drank the day away. More than a week slipped by since the arrival of the Army’s first incursion into Cape Gythmel. More arrived each day, their ranks swelling. By then, the camp found its rhythm and each day seemed no different than the last; the Krey would fight and tinker with their armor and slouch in the sun while the men of the army broke their backs, muttering curses at them and giving sour looks.
On the third day after Keg returned with rum and his tales of the warlock, he walked into their segment of camp. Xenomene sheathed her sword smoothly and rose, walking over to Raven and the Mind. She studied him intently, having never seen a warlock before. If truth be told, he looked no different than any other magic caster. Middle aged, the gray of his hair foretelling his autumn years, but sharp blue eyes, intense and calculating, a clear contrast to his warm voice. He wasn’t old, but old enough to be her father. The warlock noted her approach.
“Hello, madam, ” he courtesied.
“I am no Madam, my lord, that’s for sure,” Xenomene replied sarcastically.
“No more than I am a lord. I am Judas Lakayre, and you are … ?”
“A bored individual with no war to fight,” she muttered.
Raven rolled his eyes, “Forgive her, sire; we have yet to housebreak her with manners. She is Xenomene, my second.”
“Really? One so young?”
“Within the Krey, the only thing that matters is how you handle your sword,” she offered. She lifted an eyebrow to him, the faintest traces of a smile blossomed on her face. “Do you know how to handle your sword, warlock?”
The Mind bit his lower lip and Raven sucked in a sharp breath. For a moment, the warlock just stared at her, and then he blinked a few times, recognition spread across his face.
“If I require any instruction, I shall know who to find,” he finally proposed, not rising to her bait.
Pity. No sense of humor.
“Xeno,” Raven spoke tightly. “See to Lord Yeates, and make sure he has no wants.” The dismissal was curt for Raven, but she recognized that if she didn’t leave, she would most likely say something so sarcastic that no one could dig her out of the hole. She already courted trouble with her innuendo.
“As you wish,” she acknowledged. “Warlock?” she said as a departing courtesy.
Xenomene reached the steps and ascended to the porch and rapped sharply on the door. Instead of a grandchild, worker, or the old man himself answering the door, an old woman, about the same age as Lem, answered the door. Where Lem towered, she was tiny, shorter than Xenomene, the shortest and most petite of the Krey. Even most of the adolescences were taller than her.
“Who calls?” the woman asked through the opening door.
“Xenomene, second of the Krey. I am here to see to the needs of Lord Yeates. Where might I find him?”
“He is taking his nap, child. Do come in.” The elder, crowned with short, curly silver hair stepped back, permitting Xenomene to enter. It marked the first time she entered the house. Even though it was hot outside, Xenomene immediately detected the stone hearth and the crackling fire. Two oversized chairs stuffed with cotton sat near each other with a small, round wood table between. The base of the table was a stand housing small knickknacks with elaborately decorated and detailed dolls inside the glass. Xenomene couldn’t tell from where the dolls came from, but all were unlike any she had ever seen.
Probably some culture so far off that I have never heard of them and will never get to see. She sighed. I wonder if they have any good fighters there?
“Please, sit, my lady,” the wife offered. Xeno abstained from correcting her, deciding it would be better to hold her tongue.
“My husband should be rising soon; he never sleeps for more than an hour.”
“How did you meet your husband, Lady Yeates?” Xeno blurted as she took the offered chair.
“Call me Ene,” she insisted, picking up her knitting needles and yarn and went back to her work. “It’s short for Earlene, but I am sure you knew that. Bless me, where are my manners, would you like something to drink?” Ene began to rise, but Xenomene quickly stopped her.
“No need, Lady- er, Ene, I won’t be intruding upon you long.”
“Okay, let me now if you need anything,” she urged, settling back in. Silence ensued as sh
e went back to her knitting. Xenomene cast her eyes about the sitting room, she had never seen so much wood in a house, except, of course, House Eti. The manor’s floors, walls, ceiling, and stairs, made of a wood boasting a golden tone with hints of dark reddish brown throughout. The floor carried a high gloss sheen. A dark stain finished the stairs.
“I met him before the war,” Earlene spoke up suddenly. Xenomene whipped her head around. “He looked so smart in his conscript uniform, which is nothing compared to the uniforms they give you when you become a career military man, but I was smitten. I saw him when I visited my sister in Ralloc.” She chuckled. “That must have been before they started the outer wall.”
“How long have you been married?”
“In two seasons it will be half a Legend. Doesn’t seem that long when looking back.”
Half a Legend? Shades, five Ages! I don’t think I could stand the same face for five seasons, let alone five thousand years.
“I noticed you admiring my dolls.”
“Yes,” Xeno smiled. “Far better than the one that I received in my youth.”
“Just one?”
“Yes, my sister bought it for me, but when the Krey came and took me away, I had to leave it behind. It was a cheap doll, nothing like these you have here.”
“The one in the red dress, I bought that one in the southern continent Sonkol, a city called Elysys. The twin dolls with purple and pink dresses were a gift from Lem when he came back from the Kran Empire.”
“The Kran Empire? All the way across the Eastern Sea!” Ene gave a noncommittal grunt. “The Kran Empire is the furthest south continent, right? I can’t remember the name.”
“Vesole,” Ene supplied. “But Kran’s Empire spans two continents, the southernmost and the smaller one just north of Vesole, Cronele. But the doll came from the capital, Kran’s Prime.”
Xenomene’s eyes roamed over the dolls. One, in particular, stood out among the others, crafted with fine leather and painted. “What’s this leather one?”
“That unique doll came from the continent Groyntahl, the furthest north continent on the Kran Empire’s side. I purchased it in Merlul, Cronele. Wouldn’t dare travel in Groyntahl.”
“Why not?”
“There are beast riders there, warring clans, I can’t remember the name of them.”
“Ebbins?”
“Yes, Ebbins. A savage wilderness. Lem says even Ralloc wouldn’t dare invade even if they had cause to.”
“They are mighty warriors?” Xeno inquired, curious about the answer. No one matched the Krey in battle except perhaps the elyves. Who better to boast of their abilities than the Krey themselves? Still, she always wondered if other nations retained people or organizations like them, warriors and expert fighters. Many years passed since anyone of the Hive proved a challenge for her. She yearned to test her abilities.
With Raven’s orders, and the arrival of the Grand Royal Army, war seemed inevitable. She would test her merit soon enough, but it would be with her squad. Without arrogance, she downplayed her skill to compensate for others of her squad. It was a group effort, and if she fought to her full potential, she would leave the squad behind, making them and her vulnerable.
Another doll caught her eye; the eyes painted in such detail they seemed real, moist. Xenomene turned to ask another question but discovered Lady Yeates had fallen asleep, her knitting laying in her lap, her head listing. Quietly, Xenomene extracted herself from the chair and left her in peaceful dreams.
***
Chapter 69 : Judas
As the army hurried to ready defenses, Judas helped where he could, often enlisting the help of the Hand and the Heart. He never pulled the Mind away from the Krey; to do so would likely cause a bloodbath at the slightest provocation. Judas and the two battlemages used their magic to fortify the hastily constructed walls. Often, in the quarry, Judas would blast rock, saving time and effort for the scabs and the men-at-arms pouring in through portals every day. Levitating heavy objects eased the conscript’s burden; each load required fastening wenches in place, a lengthy process. With magic, he chopped down trees or helped with repairs, or in this case, building roads through the town, turning muddy wagon-rutted trails into proper roads. Though he tried to keep his distance from the Krey, he helped with their half-crazed scheme courtesy of Xenomene, blasting huge holes into the ground, making a pit lined with spears. Once finished, large sheets of thin wood covered the openings. The Krey then put a meager layer of earth over the wood, concealing the pits.
Judas worked diligently for three weeks, his mind focusing on the task of hurrying defenses. He toured most of the camp every day, making different rounds, spot inspections. Twice a week, he met with leaders of working parties for progress reports on repairs and plans on future endeavors. Alone in his tent, a stray thought crossed his mind, an obvious detail he missed. He hadn’t seen Kayis since he arrived. Wherever he was, Judas was certain that he was up to no good. The warlock stormed into Kernoyl Korlin’s tent without waiting to be announced.
“Where is Kayis Dathyr?”
The kernoyl looked over his shoulder but continued to pour his coffee. “He is busy at the moment, warlock, why do you require him?”
“Busy doing what?”
“An important task, I assure you,” the kernoyl said. He seated himself and took a sip of his hot liquid.
“I will be the judge of that. Where is he?”
“Again, I ask, why is it so important? I have vouched for him, is that not good enough?”
“No,” Judas bluntly acknowledged. He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. “Where?”
Whether it was the look in his eyes or the kernoyl was tired of toying with him, Judas didn’t know. “Kayis is in the stables.”
Judas bolted from the pavilion and descended upon the stables like a storming gale. The smell of hay, horses, and manure assaulted his nostrils as he marched through, checking each nook and cranny. Judas finally found Kayis half way down the stalls, a manure shovel in his hands. He stopped and turned as Judas approached.
“I was beginning to think you forgot about me. Come to gloat?” A sackcloth stained with food, grain and feces replaced Kayis’ once resplendent robes. His immaculately trimmed facial hair transformed into a burly bush of twisted knots and fleas; his hair, disheveled and matted, shined with coated oil and dirt. Even as he spoke, Judas could see that his yellow-stained teeth.
“What happened, Kayis?” Judas asked aghast. Empathy filled his voice.
“You should know, you put me here!” Kayis barked harshly.
“What are you talking about?”
“The kernoyl, he said it was your order to put me here. If you don’t mind, I have work to do, master!” he sneered.
“I just found out today, and I assure you that I didn’t place you here.” A scent reached Judas’ nostrils. “When is the last time you bathed?”
“That was also a civility you denied me, you and your kernoyl!” Judas’ eyes blazed with anger but towards Kayis. “By your leave, my lord,” he said, trying to pass Judas, but the warlock didn’t budge.
“Come with me,” he commanded. Kayis’ eyes locked with his former mentor’s, and he knew not to argue. Meekly, he followed Judas as they made their way across the camp.
The guards staged at the kernoyl’s tent announced his imminent arrival but by the time Judas got there, the canvas was gone. Gathering his magic, Judas blew the pavilion away, the cloth somersaulting through the air, leaving the kernoyl sitting at his desk without his canvas. Judas leaned down and placed his arms on the desk.
“Is this your doing?” Judas roared. The kernoyl’s head jerked around, noting where his tent landed before snapping back around to Judas, his eyes wide with surprise, but he quickly schooled himself.
“You are out of line, warlock!”
“Is this your doing?” Judas repeated, louder. Kaptyn Dillon came running up, stood glancing between the two. When the senior officer said nothing, Judas straightened.
“I hereby relieve you of command.”
The Kernoyl scoffed. “You can’t do that; you don’t have the authority!”
“Watch me.” Judas turned to the kaptyn. “You are at this moment promoted to the duties and responsibilities of your senior officer. Do you think you can handle that?”
The kaptyn clicked his heels. “With ease, sire.”
“Wait just a fucking minute–”
Judas held up a finger to shut him up. “You do realize that I am friends with the Consul?”
Kernoyl Korlin’s face went white. “You wouldn’t dare play that card with me, you treacherous bastard,” he grunted.
“I think it’s time you’ve had a chat with her.” Judas gripped Korlin’s shoulder, and they disappeared. A few heartbeats later, Judas reappeared minus the officer. The warlock glanced at Kayis then to the kaptyn. “Clean him up. Give him a bath, food, rest, clothing, and quarters fitting of his stature.”
“At once, sire,” the kaptyn bowed. Judas turned and strolled off, but he wasn’t too far away to hear Kayis’ faint ‘thank you.’
***
Chapter 70 : The Krey
Xenomene eyed the Krey as they ate their supper, noting their physical attributes, tall, short, fat, bald, skinny, scarred. She measured herself against Mauler, the only other female Krey in the squad. Where Xeno was porcelain white, Mauler was dark skinned with tattoos across her body, like a tiger. Mauler was ferocious, a descendant of the Toshii, a warring tribe from Groyntahl. Xenomene and Mauler had their share of turbulent times when pitted against each other in the Pit. Mauler drew first blood, but Xeno nearly ended her life. Absentmindedly, her fingers went to the faint scar that traced from the right corner of her mouth to mid cheek.
Bitch! Xeno thought, you fucked up my face.
But Mauler didn’t leave the match unscathed. When Xeno touched her face and saw the blood, she drove her sword through Mauler’s shoulder blades, the end coming out of her chest at her right breast. Mauler would have died without fast acting A’uri healers. Xeno chose stitches instead of magic, a reminder of how close she came to losing her life and never to underestimate her opponent again. The Heir never underestimate either of them again, forbidding any further fights in the Pit or otherwise.
